


What Sherlock Wants, John Gets

by Kryptaria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Established Relationship, Fanfic exchange, I can't write porn without scattering plot everywhere, M/M, Piercings, Riding Crop, new kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After more than a year, John is very happy with the sweet, loving relationship he and Sherlock have established. Work continues as normal and life at Baker Street goes on... until a job sends Sherlock out of town for a week. As it turns out, the assassin isn't the most interesting part of the trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Sherlock Wants, John Gets

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Sherlock想要的John都有](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7444528) by [Pattypancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pattypancake/pseuds/Pattypancake)



> Written for [edenkestral](http://edenkestral.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr as part of the [johnlockchallenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com) fic exchange. The prompt was "I would love a scene including the following. Johnlock, Sherlock with nipple rings, a riding crop, and sherlock in bondage."
> 
> Betaed by the lovely Snogandagrope, and written with Mitaya's encouragement and cheerleading.
> 
> Editorial note: After posting, the very kind xmelx pointed out that to promote healing and avoid infection, piercings should be left uncovered, to breathe. Remember, readers, not to take medical advice from fanfic stories. Thank you, xmelx!

From the very first day of living with Sherlock Holmes, John had realized that there was no sense in fighting the inevitable. The military had taught John to stoically cope with whatever fate threw his way, whether it was Sherlock shouting at the skull in the middle of a three-day sulk, waking to the reek of burning hair, or getting kidnapped (again) by whatever criminals they’d most recently irritated.

Not that it was all chaos and bad times. At first, there had been quiet days of reading the paper or watching telly or dozing in a comfortable armchair to the sound of the most exquisite violin music. And then, later, there had been the discovery of Sherlock’s strength as he wrapped his arms around John’s body, the sweetness of Sherlock’s lips as they kissed, and the delight of knowing that Sherlock’s incredible mind was focused on nothing more than their shared pleasure.

Life at Baker Street was never boring. Disquieting, disturbing, and exasperating, yes. But never boring.

So John stared at the cashpoint display for a full minute before he calmly gathered up the printout and the twenty pounds he’d withdrawn. And instead of heading to the coffee shop to pick up provisions for what was proving to be a very long, boring stakeout (divorce case, two previous dead husbands, possible black widow scenario), he went into the bank.

He texted Sherlock _(I’ll be late. JW)_ as he waited in line, and read through Sherlock’s three responses _(Come back now. Bored. SH; Considering lighting fire to client’s house. Bored. SH; Need coffee. May be dying. SH)_ with a smile.

At the teller’s window, John smiled, passed over his card, and said, “I’m afraid there’s been an error. An extra couple of zeroes in my favour. Could you look into this?”

“Of course, sir,” the teller said with a smile that was a touch too warm to be entirely professional. She chatted him up as she took his information to access the bank account that he and Sherlock had shared ever since Sherlock had declared his intent to ‘no longer be bothered with such trivia as money’. Not for the first time, John was glad about that. The last three times John had been faced with a flirtatious teller, clerk, or checkout attendant, Sherlock’s jealousy had turned nasty, though it was never aimed at John.

At least this time, the teller was more interested in customer service than arranging to meet at a pub after work or something. She finally told him, “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t find anything unusual. Your cashpoint receipt does reflect an accurate account balance.”

“You’re sure? I honestly don’t think the account’s had this much in it all year,” he said, puzzled. “Can I get a list of the deposits?”

Helpfully, the teller printed out a list for him. She slid the page under the safety window, asking, “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“Thanks, no.” He gave her a smile, reclaimed his bank card and cashpoint slip, and politely left the window, conscious of the queue. As he walked out, he started skimming the list of deposits — his pension check, payment for the two cases they’d had last month, the week of locum work he’d picked up at a local clinic —

And one deposit for fifty thousand pounds, electronic funds transfer, numbered account.

 _Dear god,_ John thought, shoving the incriminating page into his jacket as he hurried out to catch a taxi. There was no time to pick up coffee and lunch. He had to put a stop to Sherlock’s experiments in money laundering, embezzling, or whatever he was doing, before they were both arrested and imprisoned.

 

~~~

 

Life was never boring at Baker Street, until it suddenly was. The fifty thousand pounds had come from Mycroft, who’d tempted Sherlock out of the country with a two week job. Sherlock hadn’t bothered to even mention it until John had awakened to find him packing a suitcase, which had led to the heart-stopping fear that Sherlock was sick of the change in their relationship from friends to lovers and had decided to quit altogether.

“I’ll only be gone two weeks,” Sherlock had snapped, though he’d turned properly contrite when John had finally calmed down enough to explain his fears. Touched by the demonstration that John actually wanted him around, Sherlock had proceeded to similarly demonstrate his affection, resulting in an unhappy taxi driver, a rescheduled flight, and three emergency texts for John to pack forgotten articles of clothing so Mycroft could ship them to wherever Sherlock was working.

Each text was met with a fond smile that turned into a blush as John considered the specific nature of Sherlock’s distraction and delayed departure, even though John was almost certain Sherlock’s ‘emergencies’ were manufactured specifically to irritate Mycroft in retribution for separating them. No emergency on earth warranted the international priority-rush shipping of precision calipers, a book on riparian ecology, and socks.

Between texts, John napped, straightened up the flat, sterilized all working surfaces in the kitchen, and realized that without Sherlock, he wasn’t just bored. He was incredibly, unbelievable, unthinkably, possibly _fatally_ bored. No wonder why Sherlock shot up the walls and lit things on fire.

In a rare moment of consideration, Sherlock had given John his return flight information. The day before his anticipated arrival, John went out to the market, having decided that Sherlock had almost certainly neglected a proper diet during his trip and might even appreciate a good dinner. So he put some of that £50.000 to good use and picked up a nice roast, vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding mix (cooking properly from scratch was beyond his skills).

He returned to the flat, lost in thoughts of scheduling the next day. He’d have to start the roast early enough that it would be ready soon after Sherlock’s return, but not so early to risk overcooking if the flight was delayed, unless he could enlist Mrs. Hudson’s help.

Well, no harm in asking. He opened the door to the flat, intending to put away the groceries before heading back downstairs, only to be caught by a Sherlock-shaped tornado that shoved him back into the wall with a jarring thump before stealing his breath with a kiss. For one instant, John’s reflexes screamed at him to fight off the attack before his lizard-brain fully recognized Sherlock and got onboard with the unexpected, unplanned, unanticipated early reunion.

By the time they broke the kiss so they could remember how to breathe, John had forgotten all about his planned dinner surprise. “Home early, then?” he asked, his voice ragged, hands mapping Sherlock’s ribs over his shirt.

“Caught the assassin. Shut up,” Sherlock insisted, looking down at John with burning eyes turned dark with desire. He leaned in to lick at John’s throat, hands sliding down John’s back.

_“Assassin?”_

“Later. This is more important.”

Only in Sherlock’s world was kissing more important than discussing an assassin he’d apparently been sent out of the country to capture. John told himself not to panic. Obviously Sherlock was home safe, which was really all that John could hope for, given their unstable lifestyle.

Pushing his fear aside as one more thing to discuss with his long-suffering therapist, John tipped his head back to give Sherlock better access to his neck, losing himself in the happy surprise of Sherlock’s unexpectedly early return.

 

~~~

 

Somehow, they made it to the bedroom, though Sherlock hadn’t even removed his shirt before he dropped to his knees and tore at John’s belt to work the buckle open. He worked the zipper down just enough to slide John’s blue jeans down over his hips, pulled the elastic of his pants just enough to free his cock, and licked a single hot stripe up the length before his lips closed around the head and he was moving back down, and John entirely forgot about the assassin. A fierce spike of heat shot through John’s body, coiling tight in his balls, and he fisted his hands in Sherlock’s hair to try and hold him still.

“Wait. God, Sherlock, _wait_.”

Sherlock made a wordless sound of protest, though he allowed John to pull him away. He knelt back on his heels and looked up through mussed hair, eyes gone nearly black with lust. “Please.”

The desperate, broken sound of Sherlock’s voice sapped the strength from John’s legs. He sat, fortunately not missing the edge of the bed, and stared down at his lover. He’d never seen Sherlock so... _needy_.

No, that wasn’t right, but John couldn’t find the right word. Later, perhaps, when his brain wasn’t shutting down all non-essential functions — meaning anything that didn’t have to do with getting inside Sherlock right this bloody instant.

Apparently, Sherlock was thinking the same thing. He knelt upright again and caught the waistband of John’s trousers. John leaned back and lifted his hips so Sherlock could work his clothing down past his knees. Then he had John’s cock in his mouth again, working his tongue with rough, skilled friction. Sherlock reached up, caught John’s hands, and pulled them back to his hair, and it was perfectly natural for John to twist his fingers in the long, curling strands.

Sherlock’s moan was filthy. John’s hands clenched, and the answering moan, vibrating around his cock, just encouraged him to pull harder. Sherlock went pliant, tongue working with renewed energy, body pressed against John’s legs as he took John’s cock deeper, all the way to the back of his mouth until he coughed.

John loosed his grip and tried to apologize, but Sherlock just took a deep breath and pressed right back down. He shifted position, kneeling more upright, and John’s cock slipped deeper. Sherlock’s body shuddered violently, but he didn’t pull away. Distantly John realized he was working his throat, fighting his gag reflex and forcing himself to swallow instead, and that was all it took to send John careening over the edge. He pulled Sherlock’s hair in warning, but Sherlock’s fingers dug into his hips, pinning him in place.

Boneless, John fell back onto the bed, struggling to breathe, wondering what the hell had just happened. Well, not the obvious answer, but more the reason _why_. Because despite Sherlock’s enthusiasm, he generally didn’t enjoy giving oral sex to completion. As foreplay, absolutely. But he hated the taste and feel, and since they’d been tested and stopped using condoms, he’d been so careful not to actually finish John off with his mouth that even John, unobservant as he was, had put two and two together. Until today, John had been very careful to always warn Sherlock if he was getting close (not that such warnings were necessary; Sherlock usually knew before John did), and he was content to let Sherlock’s extremely talented fingers finish the job.

It took a minute for the room to stop spinning and for John to become aware that Sherlock’s breathing had gone ragged. He was still down on the floor, body pressed against John’s legs. A twinge of worry made John sit up a little too quickly.

“Sherlock?” he asked, reaching down before the sight entirely registered with him. Sherlock had worked open his trousers enough to grasp his own cock, and was tugging furiously, biting into his own hand to hide his gasps and moans.

John had always considered himself a polite, thoughtful lover. He knew he should offer to take over — he had, in fact, been thinking that as soon as he could breathe again, he’d repay the courtesy, but the sight of Sherlock’s desperation held him captivated.

Then Sherlock looked up, mouth half-hidden by his own hand, teeth digging in hard enough that the flesh had gone white. John touched the taut skin and ran his finger along the little indentations, feeling the hard flesh and softness of Sherlock’s lip.

Sherlock let out a muffled cry, eyes closing tight, and his shoulders shook for a moment. Then he leaned against John’s leg, letting his hand fall as he hid his face against John’s thigh, drawing in deep, harsh breaths.

John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, reaching with his free hand for the box of tissues by the bed. He pulled out a handful and tried to move so he could get Sherlock cleaned up, but Sherlock moved the hand he’d bit, pressing against John’s thigh to hold him in place.

“Here, love,” John said, dropping the tissues down so Sherlock could reach them. He covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, trying to be gentle with the bite. Hopefully Sherlock hadn’t drawn blood.

Finally Sherlock regained enough of his composure to move. He slipped his hand out from under John’s and cleaned up his mess, tossing the wadded-up tissues in the direction of the bin. He missed.

“What brought that on?” John asked as Sherlock sat back and looked up at him.

There was no hint of what Sherlock was thinking, but there rarely was. “I’ve wanted you for days,” Sherlock said, his voice calm and absolutely controlled.

Coming from Sherlock, that was a poetic, flowery declaration of soul-crushing desire. _Feelings_ were generally off the table as a topic of discussion.

So John took it in the spirit he meant, grinned, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I should put away the groceries.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound as he got to his feet. “You didn’t buy anything you can quickly prepare. Angelo’s?”

He’d all but attacked John the moment John had entered the flat, and still he could probably list every single thing in the abandoned grocery bags. John grinned and also stood, touching Sherlock’s arm to get his attention. “You really are extraordinary.”

With a puzzled look, Sherlock said, “I know that.”

“And an arrogant arse.” John laughed. “I’ll call Angelo’s to reserve a good table.”

 

~~~

 

“Assassin,” John said once they were seated in a quiet corner booth. Most of the time, John indulged Sherlock’s desire to observe as much as possible and asked for a table by the window or bar or anywhere there was a crowd of humanity. But sometimes, John wanted a quiet time with his lover — or to interrogate Sherlock as to the latest way he’d tried to kill himself. Fortunately, Angelo was always willing to accommodate their special requests.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock turned in his seat to watch what little of the room he could see, rather than meeting John’s eyes.

“Obviously. Details, Sherlock,” John prompted.

Sherlock’s sigh was dramatic; everything he did was dramatic. “The more distant royals don’t have the bodyguards they apparently once did — something about budget cuts and public relations. There was a threat, Mycroft asked me to look into it, I found the assassin, and you don’t have to take any more tedious locum work for the next two years, once he sends the bonus cheque.”

A tiny part of John’s mind cheered for joy at the concept of financial solvency, though he knew he’d have to take emergency measures to keep Sherlock from spending all their money in one go. John wouldn’t be surprised to one day come home and find a mass spectrometer in place of the washing machine.

The rest of him, though, was still hung up on the matter of the assassin.

“And how exactly did —”

“Boring, John,” Sherlock interrupted, slouching even more. “You didn’t miss anything. Money changed hands, and I tracked it — I could’ve done it from London.”

Angelo interrupted, bringing them a bottle of wine and a starter plate of calamari. He had an almost proprietary sense about their relationship, declaring to anyone who’d listen that he had been the first to notice just how perfect they were for one another. Even Sherlock had surrendered to Angelo’s insistence that the restaurant host their first anniversary party, which had resulted in a very heated discussion over the meaning of ‘anniversary’ and whether the proper anniversary date would be the day of their first kiss, the first time John said ‘I love you’, the first time they’d brought one another to orgasm, the first time Sherlock said ‘I love you’ back to John, or their first occasion of penetrative intercourse.

Mortified by the public discussion-turned-argument, John had quietly slipped out of the restaurant, gone back to Baker Street, and got himself very drunk in hopes of forgetting it had ever happened. He never had learned what date Sherlock and Angelo had picked.

Once Angelo was gone, Sherlock pushed aside his plate and leaned forward, speaking very quietly across the table: “There’s something I want to try.”

“Does it involve poison, radiation, or anything illegal?” John asked, moving Sherlock’s plate back into place. He picked up the serving spoon and put a good helping of calamari onto the plate.

“Yes.”

“Christ,” John muttered, serving himself. “Eat. Between bites, you can explain.”

“Well, it’s just a technicality. By British law, even a perfectly rational adult cannot consent to harm.”

John put down his fork. “Sorry?”

“It’s ridiculous, but it shouldn’t bother you. It’s not as if your gun’s legal.”

“Precisely what do you mean by ‘consent to harm’?” John asked, trying not to raise his voice. As a surgeon and a soldier, far too many methods of causing harm came to mind. While he would allow the occasional staged fight (and, in fact, sometimes found those ‘fake’ punches he threw at Sherlock to be incredibly therapeutic), he had a very definite line that he wouldn’t cross — nor would Sherlock.

Sherlock was wearing his customary ‘dealing with stupid humans’ look. “I want you to hurt me.”

“No,” he answered automatically. Then, with more consideration, he asked, “Why?”

“Obviously because the idea is arousing, and I want to see if it’s the thought or the physical reality that interests me.” Sherlock stabbed his fork at one of the pieces of calamari more viciously than was necessary, cracking the breading off. He scowled at the revealed squishy bit of squid as if it offended him.

John replayed Sherlock’s words in his head several times, letting the mix of emotions and reactions wash over him. First came relief that Sherlock wasn’t talking about harm that would require surgery to repair — at least, John hoped to hell he wasn’t. There was more than a little confusion over the degree of ‘harm’ and ‘hurt’, not to mention the inevitable exasperation that naturally Sherlock wouldn’t understand why someone would be reluctant to even consider hurting a loved one.

But buried deep under all of those perfectly rational, reasonable feelings was something that could, if allowed to grow and flourish, possibly become something vaguely like the beginnings of _interest_ in the idea.

 

~~~

 

“I couldn’t leave the country until meeting with one of Mycroft’s tedious contacts at the BfV — the _Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz,_ ” Sherlock helpfully explained. “Apparently, catching a foreign assassin isn’t enough to satisfy most people. They wanted explanations and proof.”

“Imagine that,” John said dryly. He took another sip of his wine and forced himself to follow it with a bite of calamari. Tempting as it was to get drunk, he needed to be clear-headed, at least until he had all the relevant facts.

“So I had time, and she’d gone to a nightclub where I couldn’t gain access, even with the substantial bribe I’d offered, so I went back to see what was so confidential. I finally had to get one of the members to bring me in,” he said, rolling his eyes at the effort. “And then I had to get rid of her, after she’d made assumptions that were retrospectively obvious.”

Something like jealousy twisted through John. “Her? What assumptions?”

“It was a sex club.” Sherlock gestured with his fork. “Well, a BDSM club. No _actual_ sex, at least not in the public areas, but close enough.”

John put down his fork and pressed his hands against his eyes. “You went to a —” He cut off, unable to even _think_ it, much less say it.

“Yes. Do keep up. As soon as I’d seen everything of interest, I left. I didn’t _do_ anything with anyone.”

Small relief, that. John took a deep breath and pointedly didn’t reach for the wine. “Right.”

“You’re upset.”

John quashed his instinct to say ‘Damn right, I am’ and instead looked inside himself. He was a bit surprised to find that he _wasn’t_ actually upset. “No,” he said, looking across the table. Sherlock’s expression was cool and composed, but a hint of worry that creased his brow. “I’m not.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. “Then you’ll do it?”

John sighed. “We’ll _discuss_ it when we’re alone. In detail, Sherlock. I’m not leaving any room for misunderstanding.”

Always happy to get his way, Sherlock smiled. “After dinner, I’ll show you.”

“‘Show’ me? Show me _what?_ ” John asked nervously.

“You’ll see.”

 

~~~

 

Sherlock was a clotheshorse. John had long since decided he needed a flatmate to help pay the rent because ninety percent of his income went to designer clothes. He couldn’t go away for the weekend without four suits, twice as many shirts, and at least three pairs of shoes. When he’d left for this job of Mycroft’s, he’d taken his laptop bag, a carry-on suitcase, and a checked suitcase that doubled as a hanging garment bag.

Apparently he’d purchased another suitcase while in Germany. At least, John didn’t recognize the new-looking small black suitcase that Sherlock set on the foot of their bed. The baggage handling tag was still on it; he’d checked it, rather than carrying it with him on the plane.

Sherlock unzipped the bag and threw open the lid, revealing... black. Black and silver. No, not silver. Steel, John realized as he picked up a thick, padded strap, layers of black leather and buckles and grommets and D-rings. Black leather wrapped around Sherlock’s long limbs, in stark contrast to his pale flesh... The imagined sight etched itself permanently into John’s mind, and just like that, despite the fantastic blow job and a heavy dinner and their awkward conversation, he was hard all over again.

“I wasn’t certain what you’d like, but there are places in London where we can shop if there’s something else you want to try,” Sherlock said, his low, beautiful voice weaving a counterpoint to the deafening pulse beating in John’s ears. “This is all... real. Not toys that will break with one good pull,” he said contemptuously.

John nodded. He couldn’t trust his voice. He had no idea what he’d end up saying if he so much as opened his mouth. Instead, he started removing things from suitcase, sorting the leather cuffs by size, taking guesses at where they were meant to go. Wrists and ankles were obvious, but there were others. Two identical ones looked about the diameter of a man’s thigh — perhaps not John’s, but Sherlock’s, definitely. A third, nearly the same size, had a different arrangement of D-rings, four of them in total, and John’s brain shut down when he realized it was a collar.

“They’re meant to lock. Here,” Sherlock said, and dumped a handful of tiny steel locks in John’s hands, followed by a pair of keys on a ball-chain like the one from John’s military identity tags. The keys were small and very complicated, nothing like the flat keys that came with luggage-locks. “I can pick them, so you’ll have to secure my hands apart, so I can’t reach.”

“Wait,” John choked out. He dumped the locks but kept hold of the keys, twining the ball-chain around his fingers.

But once Sherlock started on a course, nothing could stop him. He pulled out neat twists of brown rope, the ends wrapped with thread, and coils of gleaming steel chain held in bundles by zip-ties. Then he picked up the suitcase and dumped out a handful of small plastic bags holding little metal clamps, some flat, some toothed, the type of thing that John had always previously seen used in electronics repair.

John stood paralyzed at the foot of the bed, staring at the sex store inventory. His imagination wasn’t so much running wild as it was burned out from overload.

Then he jumped out of his skin when Sherlock’s riding crop landed on top of everything else, causing the D-rings to jangle and the locks to rattle and the plastic to crinkle. John dropped the keys and looked back to see Sherlock standing by the dresser, one hand braced on the wall for balance as he slipped off his shoes with the other.

“Before you ask, no, the crop isn’t the one I use for cases. I only purchased what interested me, so use whatever you’d like,” Sherlock invited, tossing his ridiculously expensive shoes in the direction of his wardrobe. They landed with loud thumps.

“You’ve really never heard of ‘taking things slowly’, have you?” John asked. He picked up the riding crop. It felt stiff, the leather shiny and slick as if it had been oiled or conditioned.

Sherlock looked down John’s body, his intense gaze as strong as a physical touch. “You like this. You’re interested,” he said, lips twitching up into a sly, satisfied smile as he focused on the erection that was slowly getting uncomfortable, trapped as it was by John’s jeans. “There’s no point in waiting.”

Try as he might, John couldn’t think of any argument against the idea.

Taking John’s silence for assent, Sherlock pressed on, “We’ll have to use the footboard to start. It’ll be another few weeks before I can comfortably lie on my stomach. Tomorrow, we can find a way to fix hooks to the ceiling.” He threw his suit jacket after his shoes and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Wait,” John repeated as Sherlock’s words sank through the building haze of lust. “What’s wrong with your stomach?”

“Nothing. The piercings need time to heal.”

John stared at him, ready to ask the obvious question (which Sherlock would probably consider stupid) before the answer was right there before him, in the form of two neat squares of gauze carefully taped over Sherlock’s nipples, framed by the cloth of Sherlock’s shirt as he unbuttoned it without pausing.

“Piercings,” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

 

~~~

 

The two small, perfect rings of surgical steel gleamed against Sherlock’s light, almost pale nipples. The flesh around the piercings was slightly reddened, flushed with blood, glistening from the antibiotic gel that Sherlock had apparently been applying with commendable diligence, given his usual neglect of his body. Apparently, he actually wanted to keep the piercings and was taking no chances with irritation or infection.

John lifted a hand, noting the way Sherlock’s body went tense. “I won’t touch,” he said soothingly, touching Sherlock’s chest an inch away from his right nipple. Sherlock relaxed, so John very gently felt the area, searching for any warmth or unusual tenderness. It was surprisingly difficult to avoid giving in to the temptation of touching the ring. He’d had plenty of girlfriends with pierced ears and a couple who’d been pierced elsewhere, but this was _Sherlock_.

“You’re upset.”

“What? No! God, no,” John said quickly, looking up for only a moment, before the rings dragged his gaze back down. He wanted desperately to touch, to run his finger over steel and skin, to hear the catch of Sherlock’s breath if he tugged, to use his tongue to play with the ring. He’d been hard before, but this was reaching levels his body hadn’t experience since before uni.

“Then... it’s all right?”

“Yes.” This time, John was able to look up for longer than a half-second. “They’re bloody _perfect,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled, an expression of pure pleasure. “Good. The weights I bought for the clamps will also work with the rings, but not for six to eight weeks.”

John exhaled sharply, flattening his hand on Sherlock’s chest as if seeking balance. “Let’s just... Can we take this _a little_ slowly?”

“You’re a doctor. I’ll leave it to your judgement to tell me when they’ve healed enough,” Sherlock answered a touch evasively.

John knew that was the best he could hope for. He wasn’t getting out of doing _something_ with... with everything Sherlock had piled on the bed. Or almost, everything. And really, he _was_ interested. More than interested. Leave it to Sherlock to come home from capturing an assassin with a bloody Pandora’s Box of sex toys.

Compared to some of the things Sherlock had brought home in the past, this was positively harmless, in fact.

“Right,” John said, gaze skittering back down to the rings. “Why don’t you... get everything set up in here, and I’ll go get some fresh gauze?” he suggested. When Sherlock nodded agreeably and started clearing the bed, John felt as if he’d scored a victory. He’d just find a way to put to use whatever Sherlock didn’t lock back in Pandora’s Box.

And the weights. Definitely no weights tonight. And probably none of those clamps and clips, either. Christ, he was in trouble. He wondered if he could sneak out to one of the laptops to get some quick pointers. This was as far from fuzzy handcuffs and a bit of tickling (one of his first girlfriends back in uni) as one could get.

He took his time finding fresh gauze, tape, and antibiotic ointment, but that was less his way of delaying and more Sherlock’s fault for ransacking the first aid kit any time he needed to put medical supplies to new uses. The most harmless was when he’d used an unfolded gauze pad as a tea strainer.

Back in the bedroom, Sherlock had not only cleaned off the bed but had moved everything away from the foot of the bed. John walked in to find him crouched on the floor by the footboard, examining it intently.

“This should be strong enough,” he said without turning around. He looked back over his shoulder at John and asked, “Would you prefer to do this?”

John wanted to say no, to leave this to Sherlock so he could watch and learn and figure out exactly where Sherlock wanted to go with this. But knowing Sherlock, this could well be a test of some kind.

Well, he’d never lacked for courage; witness his career choices. So he put the medical supplies down on the dresser and said, “I’ll do it. Do you need help with the bandages?”

Sherlock was watching him curiously, as though he’d expected a different answer. “No.”

John gestured Sherlock away from the bed and crouched down in his place. Sherlock was deceptively strong, but the footboard was wood, not pressboard, and the corner posts seemed sturdy. It would hold.

He wasn’t about to ruin the furniture with metal chains, though, so he picked up a coil of rope instead and wrapped it around the corner post. Then he remembered more than one occasion when Sherlock had got himself captured and escaped being bound. Twice, the smug bastard even managed to get the upper hand over his captors and knock them out before the cavalry had arrived.

John unwrapped the rope and tied it to the metal support frame under the boxspring. He ran the rope up over the footboard and twisted it around the post, and then threaded it through the D-ring on one of the wrist cuffs. He left the cuff on the floor and went to the other corner of the bed, where he arranged a second rope in a similar fashion.

“Come over here,” he told Sherlock, who had been watching from the bathroom doorway. Fresh gauze was taped over the piercings. It looked good enough for now; John could check on him later. After. Right now, though, Sherlock was naked and staring with hungry eyes, and John... John was intrigued in ways he probably shouldn’t have been.

But that was Sherlock, wasn’t it? He led John into ridiculously dangerous situations that would send anyone else fleeing, and John kept coming back for more.

So when Sherlock knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed, John didn’t hesitate to buckle the cuff around one pale, thin wrist. He almost asked if the cuff was comfortable, but that wasn’t what Sherlock wanted. If he wanted ‘comfortable’, they’d be on his expensive mattress with the combed Egyptian cotton sheets and down pillows instead of on the hardwood floor.

“Move up a bit. There,” John said, getting Sherlock positioned closer to the foot of the bed. Then he took up the end of the rope and wrapped it around the bedpost and back down to the original knots. He pulled tight enough to extend Sherlock’s wrist almost all the way to the post.

“Clever, keeping the knots out of reach,” Sherlock approved quietly. “You have an instinct for this.”

An instinct for tying people up, keeping them helpless, John thought wryly. He was certain that wasn’t generally a good thing for most people, but they weren’t ‘most people’.

“John.”

John looked up from securing the knots. “Is this uncomfortable?” he asked, forgetting what he’d been thinking just two minutes earlier.

Rather than answering, Sherlock reached out with his free hand, sliding his fingers around the back of John’s neck. “This is what I want,” he said quietly as he pulled John close. It was awkward, his bound arm trapped between them. “Whatever moral objections you think you should have, don’t bother. I want this, and so do you.”

John laughed, reaching up to weave his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “I’ve seen you persuade mothers to turn in their own children for crimes. You can be a charming bastard, when you want.”

“With you, I don’t have to bother.”

“Charming, arrogant, self-confident bastard,” John said, clenching his fist in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock gasped, his eyes closing. Encouraged, John rose, still holding Sherlock by the hair as he circled around to the other side of the footboard. Lines of dialog from bad porn came to mind, but that wasn’t exactly his style. “Other wrist,” he said instead, picking up the cuff.

 

~~~

 

“God, you are fucking _gorgeous_ like this,” John whispered, watching Sherlock strain against the ropes. He knelt facing the bed, wrists cuffed to the corner posts, ankles locked together. The muscles of his shoulders and back tensed and relaxed as he tested the strength of the ropes and knots.He couldn’t reach the knots and the cuffs were locked around his wrists and ankles. He could kneel upright but couldn’t stand, and with his ankles locked together, he couldn’t kick.

“Stop looking and start _doing,_ ” Sherlock said, twisting to glare over his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t you be calling me... ‘sir’ or something? Maybe be a bit more respectful?”

“Boring.”

“Right. No more boring,” John muttered, telling himself to not get irritated. Anger had no place here. Sherlock was just being himself.

He picked up the riding crop and turned his back on Sherlock, feeling incredibly self-conscious and just a little bit silly. This wasn’t supposed to feel like play-acting or the plot of bad pornography. Sherlock trusted John not only to do this, but to do this right.

He rolled up his right sleeve and extended his arm, taking a deep breath to brace himself. When he brought the crop down on his forearm, he had to clench his teeth to keep silent, surprised at how badly it stung. He watched a red welt rise as he breathed through the pain until it receded.

Did Sherlock have any idea how this would feel? Of course he did. Sherlock did nothing without a plan, without research and preparation and prior consideration.

The idea of someone else doing this to Sherlock, though...

John turned back and stepped behind Sherlock, bringing the crop down hard across his shoulders without warning.

Sherlock gasped, arching away from the crop, pulling hard on the wrist cuffs. He inched closer to the foot of the bed but couldn’t move too much with his ankles bound. As Sherlock’s breathing steadied, John combed his fingers through his hair, and then tugged his head back. He met Sherlock’s eyes, hoping not to betray his uncertainty.

“Well?”

Sherlock nodded as best he could, pulling against John’s hold on his hair. “More,” he said harshly.

Not trusting himself to answer, John looked down at the red line, startlingly bright against Sherlock’s pale skin. He set the crop gently against Sherlock’s back two inches below the first mark. Sherlock shivered and took a deep breath as though bracing himself.

John tried to aim carefully, though it was more difficult than he’d expected. The second stripe was close to the first, close enough that John worried about bruising or even breaking the skin. It must have hurt, but Sherlock just gasped again and leaned forward, fingers clutching at the ropes.

Head bowed, Sherlock took slow, deep breaths. “Again,” he insisted.

John licked his lips and pulled on Sherlock’s hair again. “Up. Kneel up.”

Sherlock looked back uncertainly but nodded. He tensed and pushed himself upright. The movement put him close enough to the footboard that he could brace his fingertips against the wood.

John crouched down and reached out with his right hand, unable to resist the lure of the welts across Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s exhale stuttered when John trailed his fingers across the first red stripe.

“How does it feel?” John whispered.

“Intense.” Sherlock shifted, arching back against John’s touch. “Good. Very good.”

John leaned closer, drawn to the subtle twitches of Sherlock’s body. He touched the welt with his lips, then the tip of his tongue, tasting the light sweat that had broken out on Sherlock’s skin. He knew he shouldn’t enjoy Sherlock’s pain like this — it was _wrong_ — but he couldn’t resist drawing his tongue along the length of the raised, reddened flesh.

“John, please.”

The way Sherlock’s voice broke drove the last, lingering doubts from John’s mind. “Again,” he said, leaning in to bite at the straining muscles in Sherlock’s shoulder. “Say it again.”

“Please,” Sherlock said tightly. “Now, John —” He cut off with a faint cry as John brought the crop down hard across his arse. “Oh, fuck, yes. John, again. Don’t stop.”

 

~~~

 

John climbed over the end of the bed, carefully slipping between the footboard and Sherlock. It felt somehow obscene that he was still dressed from their date and Sherlock was completely wrecked, his back a stinging, shivering map of red welts across his shoulders and buttocks and thighs. Gently, John brushed the side of the crop against Sherlock’s cheek, making him look up. His eyes were very dark, almost unfocused in a way that John rarely saw, as if the world had gone distant from his always-active mind.

“Still with me?”

Sherlock nodded, turning his head and leaning forward enough to press his lips against John’s hand around the handle of the crop. “Yes.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me to let you go?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched, though his smile lacked its usual edge. “Yes.”

John slid the crop back over his shoulder, scraping the tip over the highest welts. With his other hand, he undid his belt. The motion drew Sherlock’s gaze for a moment. Then he looked back up at John, who hesitated before asking, “Will you —”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, biting his bottom lip before he swiped his tongue over it.

Clumsily, John opened his trousers and pushed them down to his thighs. He shoved his pants out of the way and Sherlock leaned forward, taking John’s cock in his mouth without hesitation. John swore under his breath and grabbed at the back of Sherlock’s head, remembering at the last moment to try and be gentle — or at least polite — until Sherlock pushed back against John’s fingers and looked up into his eyes.

At Sherlock’s slight nod, John twisted his fingers into Sherlock’s soft, disarrayed curls. Sherlock’s eyes closed and he pulled teasingly back, working the underside with his tongue. John’s hips twitched forward and Sherlock let out a sound that was positively filthy. Encouraging.

A bit awkwardly, John brought the tip of the crop down on Sherlock’s back. It wasn’t hard, but any touch had to be painful. Sherlock’s breath hitched, a sharp inhale through his nose, before he took John even deeper into his mouth. He pulled hard on the cuffs, hips thrusting pointlessly into the air.

John thought about letting Sherlock free to fuck him properly, but that was too much work, and Sherlock’s mouth felt too damned good. Tentatively, John shifted his weight and nudged his left foot between Sherlock’s knees. With his ankles bound, he couldn’t spread his legs very much, but John was able to work his foot down and back, until Sherlock’s cock nudged against his trousers.

“Go on then,” John said, tugging Sherlock’s hair, tipping him off-balance and closer. Sherlock’s whole body went still as he looked up, eyes wide and dark and desperate. John shifted his leg a bit more forward, careful to be gentle, and said, “Do it, Sherlock. Bring yourself off for me.” Then he twisted his hand hard into Sherlock’s hair and added, “And don’t stop.”

With a desperate moan, Sherlock began to move, tongue working with frantic clumsiness as he rutted against John’s leg. He pulled violently against his bonds, so hard that the bedframe rattled. John sank back against the footboard and stared down at Sherlock, captivated by the sight of him. His self-control never broke like this. He was never this desperate, this needy.

Neither of them would last long, so John drew back the crop and brought it down on Sherlock’s back one more time. Sherlock threw back his head, gasping around John’s cock, and thrust hard against John’s leg. His body shuddered in a way that was wonderfully familiar and all John needed to push him over the edge after Sherlock.

 

~~~

 

“Careful,” John warned as Sherlock slipped under the blanket and curled up against John’s side. “How much does it hurt?”

Sherlock ignored the question, as he so often did, and laid his head against John’s shoulder. “Tell me I’m a genius.”

John saw where that was going. “Oh, no. You don’t get to take all the credit. I was just as much a part of that.”

“It was my idea.”

“Would it have been as satisfying with anyone else?”

Sherlock tensed. He reached around John’s body, fingers digging into his ribs to hold him close.

“Answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” John said, “because you wouldn’t have _let_ anyone else do that to you. So I get half credit.”

“Quarter,” Sherlock muttered against John’s skin, before he kissed his collarbone.

“Half or we never do it again,” John teased.

Sherlock’s huff of breath warmed John’s skin. “You enjoyed it too much to stop.”

John laughed and pulled the blanket carefully up over Sherlock’s shoulder. “You took the paracetamol?”

“Yes, doctor.” John could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes. “Go to sleep, John, before you start worrying over whether or not you hurt me and then start feeling guilty. Guilt is tedious.”

John hid his grimace; sometimes he thought Sherlock knew him too well. “Promise you’ll stay in bed all night, even if you don’t sleep?”

Sherlock let out another huff of irritation.

“Promise, or I’ll just tie you back up again.”

Sherlock lifted his head. His hair tickled John’s cheek. “There’s a thought.”

“God, you’re insane. We’ll discuss it next time. _After_ you’ve healed.”

This time, Sherlock settled down without protest, and for a little while, they were surrounded by a comfortable silence. Tentatively, John let himself think of what he’d done to Sherlock — how he’d hurt him, used him — but for once, Sherlock was wrong. The memory of Sherlock’s sweet kiss after John had freed him and Sherlock’s soft, blissful smile was enough that John felt no guilt at all. This was what Sherlock had wanted, and, as it turned out, what John had wanted as well, and it was no one else’s business but theirs.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

Sherlock moved, his voice turning lighter in that way that told John he was smiling. “I get full credit for the piercings.”

John laughed and kissed the top of his head. “Go to sleep, madman.”


End file.
